


Nice Legs

by Sol1056



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, M/M, POV Heero Yuy, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-05
Updated: 2004-03-05
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sol1056/pseuds/Sol1056
Summary: Heero fingered the scar on his upper right arm, and wished he'd at least had the option of a long-sleeved dress. Perhaps even a floor-length long-sleeved dress. Across the long bridge into downtown, and the streetlamps flashed light, off and on, across his legs. Thin, decade-old scars, tracing a year of war across his legs, and Heero resisted the urge to curl up.





	Nice Legs

"You've got a handsome profile," he whispered, face nuzzling Heero's shoulder as he drifted into sleep. "Could be quite good-looking... just a shame about the rest of you."

Heero lay awake for two hours, until he slipped free of the man's arms, dressed in silence, and left.

 

 

 

The meeting ended, and Heero stood with the rest, accepting the notations on the actions items without a word. Duo watched, brow furrowed, and Heero merely shook his head when he caught Duo staring at him.

In the hallway, Duo bumped shoulders with him. "How's Jake?"

"History," Heero replied, walking a little faster.

"Ah." Duo paused to lean into someone's office doorway, saying hello or checking up on gossip. After a minute he realized Heero hadn't waited, and shouted down the hallway. "Oy, man. Wait the hell up!" Catching up, he latched onto Heero's elbow, tugging him into a slower pace. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"A record for the week. Two words in an hour." Duo rolled his eyes. "Would ya talk more if I threaten—"

"Duo." Heero stopped by the stairway fire door, notepads and reports held protectively against his chest. He dropped his voice to a furtive whisper, almost fearful. "Do you... do you think I'm good-looking?"

"Uh... " Duo cast wary eyes around the empty lobby; perhaps he sought cameras ready to jump out at him, or just didn't know what to say. He backed up a step. "I guess so. Chicks are always asking me if you're single, and they're probably better judges than—"

"I didn't ask what someone else thought," Heero snapped. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Never mind," he added, as an afterthought, and shoved the fire door open.

"But I..."

Whatever else Duo had to say, the fire door's slam cut him off.

 

 

 

Trowa stretched across the sofa, a towel over his head, and Heero kicked the end of the sofa, briefcase still in hand.

"When'd you get back?"

"Hour ago," came the muffled reply. Trowa reached up with one hand, dragging the towel from his face to reveal damp hair, and tired eyes. "Don't think I've slept in three days."

"I haven't done groceries." Heero dropped his briefcase and laptop carrier on the dining room table, and loosened his tie. "You'd better not be starving."

Trowa flashed a sleepy grin. "Quatre's bringing something over. Celebration for surviving."

Heero snorted. "Couldn't have been that bad."

"Like fuck," Trowa said, raising a foot to kick at Heero as he walked past to grab the remote control. "My feet are going to hate me for the next year. I didn't see any of you signing up."

"Not my specialty."

"Could be."

Heero froze in the act of turning on the television. "Do you mean," he asked, in a careful guarded tone, "surveillance, or your methods?"

"Methods." Trowa smirked. "You couldn't blend in if your life depended on it."

"It did, in the past." Heero scowled and dropped the remote on Trowa's stomach. "I've got work to do. When's Quatre getting here?"

"You don't need to clear out. We'll probably head to his place after dinner." Trowa stretched, cat-like, and collapsed back in a lazy heap. "I'm not moving for at least three hours."

Heero had a vision of Quatre finger-feeding Trowa, and closed his eyes against that image. "You should sleep, instead."

"Figured you'd want the place to yourself, for when Jake—"

"He's not coming back," Heero interrupted.

The drawback of old friends on field missions, he pondered, wandering over to the dining room table and pulling out his laptop. He could take it into his study, but he didn't want to close the door behind him, isolate himself. Three weeks of an empty apartment, and no chance of sending updates on gossip. He pulled up one of the chairs, his fingers hovering over the keys.

"Trowa... do you think I'm handsome?"

"Hunh?" Trowa twisted on the sofa, resting his cheek against the arm. "Absolutely. Why?"

"Nothing." Heero stared intently at the blank screen on his laptop, before realizing he hadn't turned it on. Idly he hit the button, waiting for the start-up process; his skin prickled on the back of his neck, and he looked up to see Trowa examining him closely. "What?"

"You still have that hang-up, don't you?"

Heero scowled.

"You do," Trowa challenged. "Maybe you need to get over it."

"I expect next you'll say that the best way to teach a child to swim is to throw him into the deep end. Studies have proven the only thing this gets you is a really annoyed child."

"Your annoyance is, more often than not, for show."

Heero thought back to the age of eight, when the techs laughed at Dr. J and told him finding a girl that young was the only way he'd get laid. Heero hadn't been supposed to hear it, but he had, and for a long time he'd wondered about laying, being laid down, and what it meant. Six years was enough to hear Pretty Boy, Sweetie, even Blue Eyes. Learning to stare down someone while imagining a painful death had been his only defense; it wouldn't have been wise to actually kill the engineers building Wing. Heero set his jaw, and punched in the security codes for his laptop.

"Like I said," Trowa's voice floated across the open space to him. "All for show."

 

 

 

"Admit it." Trowa's bedroom door flew open to reveal Trowa's satisfied smirk. "You're dying to find out."

Heero backed up a pace, until his shoulder blades banged against the wall. Trowa's lean legs were bare, and hairless; arched feet to strong calves to muscled thighs, full length. The skirt barely reached below his crotch, the deep blue dress almost black in the hallway's bare light. Heero's gaze took in the stretchy material, rippling curves and planes of Trowa's flat stomach and defined chest, fabric rising to a point at the choker around Trowa's neck. Heero crossed his arms over his chest, scowling.

"It's time for the deep-end," Trowa said, and caught Heero by the shoulder, gripping him tightly. Fingers dug through Heero's sweatshirt and into his skin. "Come on," Trowa ordered, pulling him roughly into the bedroom.

"I don't—"

"You do." Trowa pushed Heero down onto the bed, and dug through his bag. "Here. Wear this."

"I'm not cleared for surveillance."

"You are as of this afternoon." Trowa dropped a swath of red fabric, followed by a second, onto Heero's lap, then frowned. "Put it on."

"I don't..."

Trowa arched one delicate brow.

Heero ducked his head, glaring, and picked up the dress. It slithered under his fingers, and he hurried from the room, dress clutched in one hand.

 

 

 

"You have to come out at some point."

"Do not."

"Duo taught me to pick locks."

"Bastard," Heero muttered, and opened the door.

"You need to shave," Trowa told him. "Nice legs."

Heero glowered, and shut the bathroom door, then turned to stare at himself in the mirror again. Did he really look like a girl? Or did he look like a boy, trying to look like a girl? No, he amended, like a man trying to look like a girl; no woman would have a chest that flat.

Nervously he smoothed down the red silk: the sleeveless, waist-length vest, the thin strip of red silk passing for a skirt. The lining chafed under his armpits, and the hem rode up too high when he paced in the small space. In the hallway, Trowa waited; his footsteps hadn't moved away.

"Shave!" Trowa commanded.

Heero glared at the door, and turned on the water for the shower. Removing the clothes, he dropped them on the floor in disgust. After a moment, he picked them up, smoothing the two pieces out and placing them neatly on the toilet.

 

 

 

Heero reviewed the information in his head, while Trowa drove. Every few minutes he'd twitch the skirt's hem; it rode up when he'd gotten into the car, and felt only a half-inch away from showing everything, including the too-tight pair of red underwear. If someone had taken his toes and bound them curled under, it couldn't have felt more awkward and uncomfortable than binding his dick so close to his body.

"Stop fidgeting."

"I'm... " Heero growled, and gave up, crossing his arms. He kicked one booted foot at the floor of the car, scuffing the toe. "I do server systems. I do not... "

"We're low on specialists," Trowa replied, somewhat glibly.

Heero fingered the scar on his upper right arm, and wished he'd at least had the option of a long-sleeved dress. Perhaps even a floor-length long-sleeved dress. Across the long bridge into downtown, and the streetlamps flashed light, off and on, across his legs. Thin, decade-old scars, tracing a year of war across his legs, and Heero resisted the urge to curl up.

Once upon a time he'd felt invincible. The body had been a tool, good enough and more than good enough, when needed.

It was still a tool, just older, and battle-scarred. Heero sighed and plucked at the hem of the dress.

Shame about the rest of you...

 

 

 

The smoke obscured the ceiling; Heero's eyes watered. He flashed Trowa's spare undercover ID to the doorman. In the light, the man couldn't see the details and probably didn't care. Heero tucked the ID back into the pocket just inside the sleeveless jacket. It buttoned from his neck, across his shoulder, and down to the armpit. A woman's style, he thought, and sighed.

At the door, Trowa nodded once and moved away, fading into the crowd. Heero scowled; his luck to work with someone who could be right there and never be noticed unless he choose. That simply wasn't Heero's style. It had taken him years, but he'd accepted he would always stand out.

Heero moved away from the bar, disdaining alcohol, and skirted the edge of the dance floor, uneasy. Over an hour—he counted the songs, sixteen of them, until the beat merging from one song to the next became too regular and he lost track of each end and beginning—Heero moved in circles around the club, stalking from point to point.

At first, he felt overly self-aware, tensing for flight or fight at every glance, every minute reaction. The appreciative look from a guy, which blended into shock, then a bit of fear, sometimes disgust, and sometimes an intrigued smile—and Heero would glare and divert his path to avoid the person. Women who narrowed their eyes at him, then took in the flat chest, the well-muscled arms, the broad shoulders, and either moved towards him or backed away further.

And he hadn't done a damn thing. It puzzled him, at first. Then it began to amuse him. And eventually, it began to please him.

He couldn't figure out why.

 

 

 

Around behind the deejay stand, on the second floor mezzanine, and he had a view of the entire place. At times he thought he'd spied Trowa on the floor below, and he suspected Quatre wasn't far, lending his own assistance to observation. Heero sipped his water, opening his mouth wide enough to take in a piece of ice, and chewing noisily before swallowing. He stood with feet shoulder-width apart, one hand on the railing. It was not a feminine position, unlike Trowa on the dance floor, snaking through the crowd with sinuous grace.

Heero couldn't manage that; he saw no reason to try. He took another piece of ice, and set the glass down on the railing, leaning one hip against the metal.

"Chewing ice is a sign of sexual frustration, I hear," a familiar voice whispered.

"Du—" Heero cut off the annoyed exclamation, startled by the press of a body against his back. He shoved down the impulse to lash out against the intrusion into his space, just as he realized two things. One, Duo must be on the detail as well. Two, Duo had seen how he'd dressed... What would he...

A hand landed on Heero's thigh, palm on the silk, fingers just brushing the hem and across skin. Each whisper of fingertip pulled Heero in two, whether to leap away, or turn and press himself against Duo.

No, he reminded himself. Coworker. We're working.

Except... Duo had never touched him before, not like that. Nor had Duo moved in close to breathe against his ear, even if the whispers were repeating the targets' actions in the basement, before Duo had gone in search of a teammate.

"You're not a girl," Duo murmured. Fingers trailed along the hem, passing over Heero's groin to rise upward, halting with palm pressed against Heero's stomach. "But tonight, you're not a boy."

Not-me, Heero thought, and heard himself say, "I'm not."

He twisted in Duo's arms to see the dance floor, but Duo caught him, holding him away. "No," Duo coaxed, fingers traveling south again. "I watch. You... be."

Heero shifted, aware they'd drawn attention, standing on the balcony beside the deejay. The dance floor was designed to see the deejay's booth as focus; they stood within its scope of attention. He pushed backwards against Duo, trying to move away from the flashing, arcing spotlights, but met only the strong, solid resisting warmth of Duo's body. Cool leather against the back of Heero's thighs; the leather jacket's zipper scraped the back of Heero's neck.

"This... " Duo's right hand continued to stroke across Heero's crotch. His left hand moved up, skillfully undoing one button, then a second, before Heero could stop him. " ...Must be hot... "

"Wait, no," Heero protested, vainly. Was he a boy? Was he a man? Was he a man trying to be a girl? What was he in that moment? People watched, and he imagined he could see himself in their expressions: something alien. Neither one, nor the other. But the parts of him... Duo's fingers had halted above the last button. "No... "

"Yes," Duo replied. "There's no shame, tonight."

The last button came undone; the sleeveless jacket fell open. Radiating scars across Heero's chest, bared to the world. He closed his eyes, and Duo's hand pressed against his sternum, heat pushing into his chest.

"And... " Heero choked out the words, uncertain. "Tomorrow?"

Duo's right hand shifted to Heero's stomach, pressed fingers beneath the top of the skirt, pushing down to cup Heero's bound cock, gently.

"Never," Duo whispered.


End file.
